“I can understand that,” Colin says.
We walk into the grand foyer of a house that looks so familiar it’s as if I’ve been in it before, and I imagine Gloria Jordan on the stairs, barefoot and in her blue floral-printed flannel gown, padding toward the kitchen, where she waited for company and a conspiracy to unfold. Or perhaps she was in some other area of the house when the door’s glass shattered and a hand reached in to unlock the dead-bolt with the key that shouldn’t have been there. I don’t know where she was when her husband was murdered but not in bed. That’s not where she was when she was stabbed twenty-seven times and her throat was slashed, overkill, what I associate with lust and rage. Most likely that attack took place in the area of the foyer where she stepped barefoot in her own blood and in the blood of her slain daughter.
“You probably can tell I’m not from here,” Mullery is saying, and at first I thought he might be English, but his accent sounds more Australian. “Sydney, London, then to North Carolina to specialize in hyperbaric medicine at Duke. I ended up here in Savannah long after the murders, so stories about this place didn’t mean much to me or I sure as hell never would have gone to see it when it went on the market a few years ago. We looked, and it was love at first sight for Robbi.”
Not the marriage made in heaven it was painted to be,Lucy e-mailed me, and attached information from records she searched that paint a portrait of a miserable woman with a self-destructive past who married Clarence Jordan in 1997 and immediately had twins, a boy and a girl named Josh and Brenda. A Cinderella story, it must have seemed to those around her when at the age of twenty she was hired by Dr. Jordan’s practice as a receptionist, and apparently this is how they met. Maybe he thought he could save her, and for a while she must have stabilized, her earlier years ones of chaos and trouble, pursued by collection agencies as she cashed bad checks and got drunk in public, moving from one low-rent apartment to the next every six or twelve months.
“Kings Bay?” Colin assumes Gabe Mullery is affiliated with the Atlantic Fleet’s home port for Trident II submarines armed with nuclear weapons, less than a hundred miles from here.
“A diving medical officer in the reserves,” he says. “But my day job is here at Regional Hospital. Emergency medicine.”
Another doctor in the house, I think, and I hope he’s happier than Clarence Jordan must have been, trying to control his wife and do so discreetly, possibly relying on his publicized friendship with the chairman of the news service that owned a number of newspapers and television and radio stations back then, someone Dr. Jordan served with on committees and charitable foundations and who had the ability to manipulate what might end up in the press.
The media didn’t report a word about Mrs. Jordan’s recurrence of bad behavior, the series of sad and humiliating events beginning in January of 2001 when she was arrested for shoplifting after hiding an expensive dress under her clothes and neglecting to remove the security tag. A cry for attention, for help, but possibly more treacherous than that, it went through my mind, as I was going through Lucy’s e-mail.
Mrs. Jordan was striking out in a way that might actually punish a husband who neglected her and had rigid expectations about his wife’s role and behavior, and she retaliated by targeting his pride, his image, his impossibly high standards. Not even two months after her shoplifting incident at Oglethorpe Mall, she ran her car into a tree and was charged with DUI, and four months after that in July, she called the police, intoxicated and belligerent, claiming the house had been burglarized. Detectives responded, and in her statement she claimed the housekeeper had stolen gold coins worth at least two hundred thousand dollars that were kept hidden under insulation in the attic. The housekeeper was never charged, the accusation dismissed after Dr. Jordan informed police he’d recently relocated the gold, an investment he’d had for years. It was safely inside the house, and nothing was missing.
But what became of the gold between July and January 6? Dr. Jordan could have sold it, I suppose, although the price was at an all-time low throughout 2001, averaging less than three hundred dollars an ounce, Lucy pointed out, and it seems odd to think he wouldn’t have waited for the value to go up, especially if he’d had the gold for a while. There’s no evidence he needed money. His 2001 tax return showed earnings and dividends on investments totaling more than a million dollars. Whatever became of the gold, it seems a fact it was gone after the murders. There’s no reference to stolen property, and investigative reports indicate that jewelry and the family silver didn’t appear to have been touched.
Certainly Gloria Jordan didn’t end up with a small fortune in gold, since it likely was she who relocated it the last time, likely the afternoon before her murder, and although I don’t think anyone will ever know exactly what happened, I do have a theory based on the facts as I now know them. I think she staged a burglary to explain the disappearance of what she herself intended to steal, and then decided she wouldn’t have to share the loot with a coconspirator, or more than one, if she pretended she couldn’t find it. Her husband must have hidden the gold yet again, and she was dreadfully sorry but it wasn’t her fault.
I can only imagine what she might have said when her accomplice, or most likely two of them, showed up, but I believe Mrs. Jordan was up against a force of evil far more brilliant and cruel than she could conjure up in her worst dreams. I suspect that on the early Sunday morning of January 6, she was forced to reveal the gold’s hiding place and perhaps while she was in the garden near the old root cellar she received her first cut. Possibly as a warning. Or maybe the beginning of the attack, and she fled back into the house, where she was killed, her body carried upstairs to be lewdly displayed in bed next to her slain husband.
“So we’re looking around and it’s a great place, and I’m impressed, I admit,” Gabe Mullery is saying to us. “And an amazingly good price, and then the Realtor went into detail about what had happened here in 2002, and no wonder it was a deal. I wasn’t thrilled about the association or the karma or whatever you might want to call it, but I’m not a superstitious person. I don’t believe in ghosts. What I have come to believe in is tourists, in idiots that have the sense and manners of pigeons, and I don’t want a carnival atmosphere now that her execution’s back on.”
There will be no execution. I will make sure of it.
“Damn shame it didn’t go down as planned, that the judge delayed it. We want it over with so it will settle to the bottom, out of sight, and be forgotten. Hopefully someday people will stop asking for the nickel tour.”
I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure Lola Daggette never sees the death chamber, and maybe the day will come when she’ll have nothing to fear. Not Tara Grimm, not corrections officers at the GPFW, not Payback,as in paying the ultimate price, and maybe that ultimate price is one with the first name of Roberta. Anything can be a poison if you have too much of it, even water, General Briggs said, and who would know more about medications and microbes and their fatal possibilities than a pharmacist, an evil alchemist who turns a drug meant to heal into a potion of suffering and death.
“Tell me what you want to look at,” Gabe Mullery says to me. “I don’t know if I can help you or not. Another owner lived here before we bought the place, and I really don’t know the details of what it was like when those people were killed.”
The kitchen is unrecognizable, completely renovated, with new cabinets and modern stainless-steel appliances and a black granite tile floor. The door leading outside is solid with no panes of glass, just as Jaime said, and I wonder how she knew, but I have a guess. She wouldn’t have hesitated to walk here and insert herself, possibly feigning she was a tourist wandering around, or she might have boldly said who she was and why she was interested. I notice the laptop computer on an area of the counter where there is no place to sit and work. There is a wireless keypad on top of a table and contacts in every window I see, an upgraded security system that might include cameras.
“Well, you’re smar
t to have a good security system,” I remark to Gabe Mullery. “Considering the curiosity people have about this place.”
“Yeah, it’s called a Browning nine-mil. That’s my security system.” He grins. “My wife’s into all the gadgets, glass breaks, motion sensors, video cameras, the nerdy one. Always worrying people will think we got drugs in here.”
“Two urban myths,” Colin says. “Doctors keep drugs in the house and make a lot of money.”
“Well, I am gone all the time, and she does sell drugs for a living.” He opens the kitchen door. “Another urban myth that pharmacists keep a stash at home,” he says, as we go down stone steps to a hyphen of flagstones and grass, and I hear music on the sunporch, which is set up as a gym and probably where Gabe Mullery was when we showed up. Before that, he probably was cutting the grass.
I recognize the red terra-cotta tile floor behind glass where there’s a bench and racks of free weights, and leaning against the back of the house are two bicycles with small wheels and hinged aluminum frames, one red, with the seat and handlebar raised high, the other one silver and for someone shorter. Next to them are a lawnmower, a rake, and bags of clippings.
“I guess the best thing is to let you wander around,” Mullery says, and I can tell by his demeanor he’s not the least bit wary of us and has no idea that maybe he should be. “Gardening’s not my thing. This is Robbi’s domain,” he says, as if he’s not particularly interested in it, and nothing that once was there is left.
The tea olives and original shrubbery, the statuary, the rockery, the crumbling walls, have been replaced by a limestone terrace built directly over what I suspect was once a root cellar, and behind the terrace is a small outbuilding painted pale yellow with a shingled mansard roof and a vent rising from it that looks industrial, and under the eaves are bullet cameras. So far I’ve counted three, and tucked behind boxwoods are an HVAC and a small backup generator, and storm shutters cover the windows as if Gabe Mullery’s wife is expecting a hurricane and a power outage and is worried about trespassing and spying. The building is blocked on three sides by privacy screens, white-painted lattices climbing with crimson glory vine and firethorn.
“What sort of work does Robbi do in her office back here?” I ask her husband what would be a normal question under normal circumstances.
“Getting her Ph.D. in pharmaceutical chemistry. Online studies, writing her dissertation.” He would never volunteer any of this if he weren’t an innocent, a big, strong warrior who doesn’t know he lives with the enemy.
“Honey? Who’s here?” A woman’s voice, and she appears around the side of the house, walking calmly but with purpose, not toward her husband but toward me.
In bone-colored linen slacks and a fuchsia blouse with her hair pulled back, she’s not Dawn Kincaid, but she could be if Dawn wasn’t brain-dead in Boston and was more filled out, was very fit. I notice the baguette ring and the big black watch and most of all, her face. I see Jack Fielding in her eyes and nose, and the shape of her mouth.
“Hello?” the woman says to her husband as she stares at me. “You didn’t tell me we had company.”
“They’re medical examiners and wanted to look around because of the murders,” says her handsome husband, who’s a busy doctor in the Naval Reserves and is gone a lot, leaving her alone to do what she wants. “Why home so early?”
“Some big ole bad-boy cop came in,” she says to him while she looks at me. “Asking a lot of strange questions.”
“Asking you?”
“Asking about me. I was in back but could hear the whole thing, and I thought it was annoying.” She looks at me with Jack Fielding’s eyes. “He was buying an Ambu bag and wanted to know if we had a defibrillator, was chatting up a storm with Herb, then the two of them were outside smoking. I decided to leave.”
“Herb’s a moron.”
“A lot of loose grass clippings,” she complains to him, but she doesn’t look around. She looks at me. “You know how much I don’t like that. Please make sure you rake the rest of them up. I don’t care if they’re good fertilizer.”
“Hadn’t finished. Wasn’t expecting you home so soon. I think it’s time to hire a yard man.”
“Why don’t you get us some water and some of those cookies I baked. And I’ll give our visitors a tour.”
“Colin? While I look at the garden, what’s left of it, maybe you can give Benton a message for me,” I say to him, but I don’t take my eyes off her, and I know Colin senses something is wrong.
I give him Benton’s cell phone number.
“Maybe you could let him know he and his colleagues really need to see what Robbi has done to her garden, converting the old root cellar into a remarkably functional office, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Robbi for Roberta, let me guess,” I say to Colin, as I look at her, and I can hear him on his phone.
“Yes, in the backyard,” Colin says quietly, but he doesn’t recite the address or where we are, and I suspect that Benton might already be on the way.
“It’s exactly what I’d like to do at home, build an office in back that’s as secure as Fort Knox, an area where maybe gold once was kept before it was stolen,” I say to Roberta Price’s face. “With backup power and special ventilation, plenty of privacy and security cameras I could monitor from my desk. Or better yet, remotely. Keeping an eye on who comes and goes. If you don’t mind my husband and his colleagues dropping by,” I say to Roberta, as the kitchen door shuts, and I wonder if Colin is armed.
“Price or Mullery?” I ask her. “You probably took your husband’s name, Mullery. Dr. and Mrs. Mullery in a lovely historic house that must hold special memories for you,” I tell her stonily, as I’m vaguely aware of a loud engine in the distance.
She steps closer to me and stops. I see her anger seething because she’s finished and she knows it, and I again wonder if Colin is armed and I wonder if she is, and while I’m wondering about all of this I’m worried most about the husband boiling out of the house with his nine-millimeter. If Colin points a gun at Roberta or tackles her to the ground, he very well might end up beaten to death or shot, and I don’t want Colin shooting Gabe Mullery, either.
“When your husband comes out of the house,” I say to her, as Colin moves closer to us, “you need to tell him the police are coming. The FBI is on the way even as we speak. You don’t want him getting hurt, and he’ll get hurt if you do anything rash. Don’t run. Don’t do anything, or he’ll get in the middle. He won’t understand.”
“You won’t win.” She slips her hand inside her shoulder bag, and her eyes are glassy. She is breathing hard, as if she is extremely agitated or about to attack, and the sound of the loud engine is close, a motorcycle, as her husband emerges from around the side of the house, carrying bottles of water and a plate.
“Take your hand out of your bag. Slowly,” I tell her, as the engine roars close and suddenly stops. “Don’t do anything that makes us do something.”
“Looks like we got more company.” Her husband strides across a yard strewn with fresh grass cuttings, and he drops the bottles and the plate as Roberta Price withdraws her hand from her purse and she’s holding a canister that is boot-shaped and white, and a gunshot explodes near the house.
She takes one step and drops to the ground, blood streaming out of her head, an asthma inhaler nearby on the grass, and Lucy is running across the yard, a pistol gripped in both hands as she shouts at Gabe Mullery not to move.
“Sit down nice and slow.” Lucy keeps the pistol aimed at him as he stands in his backyard, shocked.
“I’ve got to help her,” he cries out. “For God’s sake, let me help her!”
“Sit down!” Lucy yells, as I hear car doors shut. “Keep your hands where I can see them!”
TWO DAYS LATER
The bell in City Hall’s gold-domed tower rings in slow, heavy clangs on a hazy Independence Day that won’t include fireworks for some of us. It’s Monday, and while the plan was to get out early for the long flig
ht home, it’s already noon.
By the time we land at Hanscom Air Force Base west of Boston it will be eight or nine p.m., our delay not due to the weather but to the winds of Marino’s moods, which are gusting in fits and starts and constantly changing direction. He insisted on returning his cargo van to Charleston, where he wants us to land en route, in case he decides to return home with us, because he’s not sure, he said. He might stay down here in the Lowcountry and do some fishing or thinking, and he might look for a preowned johnboat or decide to take a sabbatical, as he put it. He might end up back in Massachusetts, it was hard to say, and as he deliberated over what he should do with himself he discovered other ways to stall.
He needed more coffee. He might make one last run for steak-and-egg biscuits he can’t get up north. He should go to the gym. He should return the rented motorcycle to the dealership so Lucy doesn’t have to do it. She’s been through enough with all the police and FBI interviews, all the red tape, as he put it, that goes with a shooting, and it’s a bad feeling to kill someone and realize the person wasn’t reaching for a weapon but a wallet or driver’s license or an inhaler. Even when the dirtbag deserved it, you’d rather it didn’t go down like that, because someone’s always going to question your judgment, he went on and on, and that’s what stresses you out more than having the person dead, if you’re honest about it. He didn’t want Lucy on a motorcycle right now, and began worrying about her flying because of what he imagines is her state of mind.
Lucy is fine. It’s Marino who’s not. He ran errand after errand, and when at last he was ready to set out for the two-hour drive to Charleston, he decided he wanted all the provisions I’d bought, which can’t fit in the helicopter anyway, he pointed out. Not that I’d planned on hauling extra pots and pans and canned foods and a butane two-burner stovetop all the way back to New England, but he insisted he have them. He hasn’t had a chance to set up his new place in Charleston, he explained, as he piled everything he could find into boxes he got from a liquor store, including open bags of chips and trail mix and used containers and bottles of cleansers and hand-washing detergent, even a travel hair dryer he doesn’t need for his bald head and a travel iron and ironing board he’ll never use on his synthetic blends.
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